


The Wrong Kind of Daddy

by LivefromG25



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Every single time, London baby, M/M, Timmy is a mood, Zero smut, all talk and no action, another episode of yacht daddy and the theatre kid i guess, but now i really want breakfast, really zero anything, why do Armie's tweets do this to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 07:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivefromG25/pseuds/LivefromG25
Summary: Timmy is heading back to the theatre, yey! Of course, Armie would call him when he sees the news...(There is zero substance to this, I just needed it out of my head. thank you for indulging me)
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 27
Kudos: 121





	The Wrong Kind of Daddy

“Armie!”

“Good morning!” Armie’s voice is bright and loud, like the sun streaming through his kitchen window bringing the marbled countertop alive with glitter. He places his phone down on the sparkled surface freeing up both hands to crack an egg into a waiting pan. 

“So, London, huh?”

He grins as Tim wraps his name around a sigh on the other end of the line; the vowels drawn out and smile-shaped. 

He cracks another egg. 

“Ah, no, no. I get it. You can’t see me do anything without wanting to be in on it.” He rubs against his skin, jaw jutted in mock-defiance as he gently scrambles the eggs, the sound of Timothee’s exasperated giggles mixing with the yolks. 

“Dude, _stooop_ . My god. It's not like you just found out, you were there with me, you fucking fool. You're embarrassing me.” Tim's laughter subsides and he pauses. His voice, when it returns, has lost its spark of camaraderie. It is hesitant, soft. “Armie, I _am_ doing the right thing, right?”

Armie stops stirring the pan, moving it off the heat so his eggs don’t burn. He presses the speaker button before putting the phone to his ear. 

“Talk to me.”

“It’s just-, now that it is out there I guess I just feel… fuck this _is_ embarrassing, um…” He lapses into silence. Armie waits, his eyes drifting closed to feel closer, the fingers of his left hand making shapes on the smooth surface. 

A deep inhale, the type Armie knows comes before a word rush. 

“Man, I just-, I feel really fucking vulnerable, Armie. What if I can’t do this anymore? Or, what if I can but I fucking _really_ don’t enjoy it, or - worse - what if I fuck it up so fucking badly and I ruin everything? Not only the show but everything, my reputation, all of it? What if I-”

“Tim.” His voice is firm as he raises a hand. “Stop.” He opens and casts an eye to a framed picture of them pinned to his fridge. Taken during a post-award show high, Tim draped across his back like a shawl. “None of that will happen. None of it. Do you know how I know?”

“How?”

“Because. Because you’re Timothee _fucking_ Chalamet and if there is one thing I know for sure about Timothee _fucking_ Chalamet is that--” A gentle sigh cuts him off. 

“He’s an excellent lover?”

He smirks. “No. Jesus, he’s not _that_ good of an actor, I was gonna say…”

“Fuck you.”

“Mmm. Can be arranged.” Armie can feel the tension dissipate as if it were never there, and he pops two pieces of bread in the toaster, high on the confidence of a crisis averted. This time. 

“Listen, I already told you - this will _be_ amazing. _You’ll_ be amazing and, for once, this whole time-zone bullshit will be amazing because you better fucking believe I’ll be right there for you ahead of every single show, okay?”

“Hah. What, even before your own?”

Armie closes the fridge, dropping a tray of fruit on the island countertop. “Even before my own.”

“You’re dumb.”

“Luckily for you; it’s how you hooked me.”

“Heeeey!”

Armie laughs, takes a melon out of the tray with one hand and puts his phone back on speaker with the other. Pulling a knife from the drawer, he slices into the ripe flesh. 

“We good?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Tim coughs. Sounds of rustling as he switches position, His voice drops again, calmer this time. “How do you do it?”

“What?”

“Make me forget.”

Armie pauses, bracing himself against the counter as he contemplates an answer. He knows too deep could send Tim back into a spiral; brushed off could seem too cold. 

“That’s just what we do, right? You jump, I jump.” He raises himself, a one-man pep rally. “And today, baby boy, we ain’t jumpin’. We’re in a good mood, it's a beautiful morning, the sun is shining, this is big news, and I’m fucking proud of you. So fucking proud. And there’s plenty of time to freak out and I don’t think now is it. I want you to just enjoy this, take it in.”

Armie feels the nodding acquiescence in Tim’s silence, the heat of Tim’s blush on his cheeks as if it were his own. 

“Hey. Tim?”

“Hmm, what?”

“Why did the melon decide not to get married?”

Tim barks out a laugh, pulled out of his reverie by the sudden change in tone. “I dunno, dude, why?”

“Because he cantaloupe”

His mouth wide with giddy excitement, he resumes slicing the fruit as the sound of Tim’s laughter wraps itself around him.

“Dude, that was-”

“A terrible dad-joke? I know.”

“Nah, you _are_ a dad, so all your jokes are dad jokes. But fuck, that one was _clearly_ too hip for the room. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Was that your way of asking me to run away with you? Because we’re not melons.”

“What, we’re not melons so we can-aloupe?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Would you come if I did?”

“Are we still talking about eloping?”

“Depends. Is your answer the same, regardless?”

Tim breathes seductively down the phone line. “Yes.”

There’s a pause, heavy but not expectant. 

“Thank you. I feel better.”

“Good. Then I consider this day a win.”

“Enjoy breakfast. Call you later?”

“Yeah, I’m on the school run today so maybe tonight after I’ve dropped them home?”

“Cool. Text me.”

“Will do. Later.”

Armie presses cancel on the screen. He throws and catches a slice of melon with his mouth as the toaster pops up. He huffs softly, amused. He reconnects the Bluetooth and, as the room fills with the heavy sounds of gloom-metal, clicks into the Twitter app. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful Kendylgirl for being on hand for last minute read over. Any and all mistakes are my own.


End file.
